


Réveillon

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones used to love Christmas. Jim tries to help him get back into the spirit again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Réveillon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 23rd day of [space_wrapped](http://space-wrapped.livejournal.com/).

The day starts like any other, which is to say, it doesn’t really give Jim any warning that at some point it’s going to turn on its head and go sort of bizarre and oblong.  
  
If he’d really bothered to think things through, he might have realized that today was the last day of classes before winter break. There’s a distinct possibility that fact would have given him a hint as to the events to come. The holidays did, after all, have a tendency to make even the most staunchly solid and reliable people go bewilderingly manic, but Jim didn’t like, or give much thought to, Christmas, so he never voluntarily paid it much attention.  
  
Despite the lingering, unnoticed potential for eventual madness, Jim still gets up at 0600 hours like he usually does. He’s apparently always been in possession of an ugly little masochistic streak about the size and depth of a small puddle, so he’s the sort of person that willingly does things like take a leisurely morning jog around campus before class every single day, rain or shine. It doesn’t matter that there’s a thick fog rolling in, or that it's about fifty degrees out. He ends up in shorts and a sweatshirt regardless, the latter of which he realizes, once he has pulled it on and stepped outside into the chill air, isn't his. It's pale blue, and has  **WILD GEORGIA SHRIMP FESTIVAL 2253**  splashed across it in bubble print.   
  
"Huh," he says, fingering the hem. He takes a moment to peel a lost sock from his hip, the lack of holes telling him it also doesn’t belong to him, and then shoves it into the wide front pocket.   
  
The fog is thick and opaque, and the dark, rumbling clouds promise rain. By the time Jim does a circuit, he's damp and shivering, in spite of what he considers mild weather. Jogging through the fog feels a bit like moving through jelly.  
  
Jim briefly considers another lap, but then his mental Leonard McCoy takes a moment to surface and berate him for running around like an idiot in this weather (and half-dressed to boot, Jim, are you trying to catch your death?! Pants won’t kill you!). Normally he can tune it out, but his teeth are chattering and it seems like it’s getting colder and he knows McCoy would probably mock him forever if he caught pneumonia or something equally impossible, so he admits defeat and retires to his room to shower away the clinging cold.   
  
The rest of his day continues normally, too.  
  
He attends Tactical Analysis and Temporal Mechanics, skips Stellar Cartography, and flips a coin over Interspecies Protocol (tails – he doesn’t go). McCoy is in the mess at lunch. Jim spends a thoroughly enjoyable half-hour pestering him while shovelling apple pie into his mouth and ignoring McCoy’s grumpy reminders that dessert is not an appropriate lunchtime choice, and then he goes to the gym before Biochemistry.   
  
It's 1900 hours before he eats dinner and it’s right about  _now_  that his day starts to take the path down  _What the Fuck? No, Really_  territory.  
  
First of all, and... _only_  of all, really, McCoy is suspiciously absent from the cafeteria. Jim eats his spaghetti slowly, waits around for forty-five minutes, and then heads to McCoy's room. McCoy is usually in the mess before Jim, especially for dinner, and there are no messages waiting on Jim’s communicator.  
  
When he lets himself in to McCoy’s dorm, he finds Bones sitting in the center of the floor wearing the most god-awful sweater Jim has ever had the misfortune of seeing. He's holding a mug of something that smells like chocolate and cinnamon, and he’s scowling absently at a nondescript point on the wall. Jim pauses in the doorway, bewildered, because he's almost positive that's Christmas music he can hear.   
  
"Bones?" he questions, hoping his world will right itself.   
  
"What?" snaps McCoy, turning to look at Jim. He very pointedly takes a sip of his mug of hot chocolate. There are marshmallows in it.   
  
"Uh," says Jim. He hasn't thought this far ahead. He goes for the obvious. "What are you doing?"  
  
"I," announces McCoy, sourly, "Am listening to Bing Crosby. What are  _you_  doing?"  
  
"Losing my mind, apparently," replies Jim. "Is that...is that a fake fireplace?"  
  
McCoy follows his eye line to the vidscreen, where a recorded video of a merrily crackling fireplace is playing on a loop. "Yes," he sighs.   
  
"What the hell are you doing?" repeats Jim, entering the room warily and sinking down on the floor next to McCoy. He scoots right up into his personal space without really thinking, their hips and knees touching.   
  
"I'm trying to get into the Christmas spirit," says McCoy morosely. He sounds light-years away from it, despite the cozy scene he's presenting.   
  
"Oh," says Jim. He squints at the monstrosity McCoy is wearing. It's a tableau of frenetic Christmas hodgepodge, as if the maker decided it wasn't seasonal enough with just a snowman, or a reindeer, and tried to cram every single Christmas trope into one miserable piece of clothing. It has the misfortune of being partially three-dimensional, the felt of the reindeer antlers and the fluff of the snowman sticking out from the sweater like they're trying to escape. Santa Claus, festive trees, carollers, and a Christmas cottage all struggle for attention.   
  
"Did someone make that for you?" Jim asks uneasily, after a long, awkward silence where they both stare at the sweater, Jim in horror, McCoy in resigned weariness.   
  
"No," snorts McCoy. "My aunt bought it for me, fifteen years ago. She was blind at the time. It was at the bottom of my closet, but I figured you couldn't get much more spirited than this."  
  
"It's like an elf vomited Christmas cheer," agrees Jim. "Why are you trying to get in the spirit?"  
  
"Because I used to love Christmas," grumbles McCoy, once again achieving that bewildering contrariness of tone that makes Jim question whether Bones actually understands the conventions of dialog, and how vocal expression is meant to match content of speech.   
  
"I can't imagine you loving anything," offers Jim cheerfully. He takes the mug from McCoy and takes a sip, making a pleased noise. "Holy shit. Is this real chocolate?"  
  
"My mother sent me a care package," admits McCoy, pointing to a box sitting on the kitchen table. "Knock yourself out. There's nothing in there that you're allergic to. I made sure –" he pauses, as if he's decided he's said too much, and instead finishes, "Just leave me some of the gingerbread. It's my favourite."   
  
Jim is already halfway inside the box, his voice muffled as he calls out, "Is this fudge? Oh my God, this smells like booze. Are these rum balls?" When his head emerges, his mouth is full, cheeks bulging.   
  
"You're like a vacuum cleaner," observes McCoy irritably, levering himself off the floor and shuffling over to join Jim.   
  
Jim notices, belatedly, that he's wearing snowman slippers.   
  
"Why don't you love Christmas anymore?" asks Jim curiously, around a mouthful of peanut brittle.   
  
McCoy shrugs. He removes a piece of fudge from the tin, taking a tiny bite. The crease between his brows smoothes a little as he utters a small sound of contented bliss. "Suppose I haven't had too many good Christmases, lately."  
  
"You and me both," says Jim, mashing an entire sugar cookie into his mouth. When he meets McCoy's eyes again, Bones is looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.   
  
"Are you going anywhere for break, Jim?" he asks.   
  
"No," says Jim, shrugging. There’s a little squirming feeling of mingled hope and resignation wriggling uncomfortably in his stomach. "I thought about going skydiving or mountain climbing, or something, but I've got the Kobayashi Maru after break, and I could use the time to practice."  
  
McCoy blinks at him, his mouth doing a funny little twitch.  
  
"What?" demands Jim, still chewing determinedly.   
  
The twitch morphs into an almost-smirk, and McCoy reaches out to thumb a smudge of powdered sugar from his nose. He pauses, mouth soft, eyes tracking over Jim's face, and then he sighs.   
  
"You've got a little something," he says finally.   
  


oOo

  
  
The temperature keeps dropping, and it starts snowing the next day, at noon.  
  
McCoy has the horrified attitude of a man who has absolutely no clue how to deal with inclement weather; he immediately disappears inside and reappears five minutes later wearing a long black coat with a fur-trimmed hood, as well as a fuzzy wool hat with ear flaps and a bobble. There's a knitted scarf wrapped around his face, hiding his mouth, though Jim can easily picture the jagged downturn of his lips.  
  
He's pulling leather gloves on as he rejoins Jim in the West quad, scowling suspiciously at the thick flakes swirling down, already coating the ground. Jim catches one on his tongue.  
  
"You know what's at the center of every snowflake?" McCoy asks pissily.  
  
"What?" asks Jim, humouring him.  
  
"A speck of dust."  
  
"Mmm, delicious," announces Jim, smacking his lips noisily. McCoy scowls at him harder, as if willing him to implode.  
  
"It's really coming down," observes McCoy darkly, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, even though there's been no discernible temperature change in the fifteen minutes since it started snowing. "I suppose this is comforting to you, coming from the desolate Midwestern wasteland of frozen corn otherwise known as Iowa."  
  
"It will keep snowing until we can't actually leave the dorms because of the drifts, and then we'll all die," says Jim solemnly. He holds out his hand to catch a snowflake, and it melts instantly on his skin. "They call it the Quiet Apocalypse. For someone that claims to love Christmas, you sure distrust snow.”  
  
“Where I come from, Christmas is green,” mutters McCoy. “You should put a scarf on, Jim, it’s cold.”  
  
Jim catches another snowflake and then shrugs, brushing the snow out of his hair, a smile on his face. “All my winter gear is in Iowa, probably sealed up in a big box. I didn’t think I’d need it here. Snow in San Francisco is kind of weird. Hey Bones, want some hot chocolate?"  
  
McCoy’s eyes narrow and he eyes Jim warily. "Why?"  
  
Jim rolls his eyes. "To drink? Because it's tasty? Because you made some yesterday and it was awesome?"  
  
"Oh. Sure," agrees Bones, relaxing, the tension visibly draining from his broad shoulders. "I'll agree to anything that gets us inside." He turns to start walking back to the dorm, and Jim falls into step beside him.  
  
The slush that dribbles into McCoy’s collar a few seconds later earns Jim a totally enthusiastic slap to the back of the head.   
  


oOo

  
  
The following day proves even more mystifying than the last few combined.  
  
"Here," says McCoy, materializing at Jim's elbow outside of the assembly hall and making him jump. He violently shoves a badly-wrapped package at Jim before disappearing down the corridor without a backward glance.   
  
Jim has never been one to wait before opening a gift, and it’s only a few days to Christmas, so he tears off the red-and-white paper and blinks down at what appears to be the longest scarf he’s ever  _seen_. It's seeping from the packaging like it has started spontaneously spawning from inside the festive wrapping, tendrils of tightly knitted wool tumbling over Jim's curious fingers.   
  
"What the hell?" he asks aloud.   
  
"It's a scarf, Kirk," calls a vaguely familiar cadet as he power-walks past.   
  
"Yeah, thanks, asshole!" yells Jim, waving the end of the scarf in his general direction. "I have eyes!"  
  
He  _does_  have eyes, and they're telling him this is a hand-knitted scarf – it’s a good ten feet,  _Christ_  – because while the handiwork is undoubtedly fine, Jim can spot occasional imperfections and dropped stitches. The confusing part is a) why Bones knows how to knit, and b) why the fuck he spent so much time making this for Jim. It's thick and soft, and made of that multi-shaded yarn that moves seamlessly throughout the entire spectrum of a colour.   
  
In this case, blue.   
  
Jim wraps it wonderingly around his neck once, twice, three times, so that the ends don't brush the ground, and starts to walk slowly back to the dorms.   
  


oOo

  
  
Jim’s quickly come to the conclusion that the scarf is kind of awesome.   
  
He keeps fingering it, stroking the wool between his hands, wondering when the hell McCoy had time to make it, because it's damn long, and it definitely didn't knit itself. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given him. It's the first Christmas present he's gotten in years, and his initial plan to get McCoy a bottle of good liquor erupts messily in a geyser of unimaginative molten failure. He can't give Bones booze, now, even if it's really,  _really_  nice, astoundingly expensive booze. It's as good as saying "Thanks for the awesomely thoughtful, handmade gift. I know you're kind of a drunk sometimes, so here's something a little higher-end than the sewer drainage you usually drink. Have fun with that."  
  
Jim winces at how McCoy wouldn't even blink at getting it, that he'd smile and say thanks in that smooth, pleased tone he uses when he's satisfied, and then he'd offer Jim a tumbler to share the first glass. That's the real kick in the pants; how Bones probably isn't expecting anything in return. He made the scarf for Jim because he felt like it, because he thought it was something he needed but wouldn’t get for himself, not because they agreed to exchange gifts. (Because they definitely didn’t. Jim would’ve remembered.)  
  
That's the knowledge that prompts Jim to set the (really, seriously,  _incredibly_  expensive) bottle of Hirsch back on the counter, giving the clerk an apologetic smile as the sale disappears in a small puff of smoke. The clerk looks disappointed as she locks it back up, and Jim guiltily moves on through the shopping center, hands in his pockets, his nose tucked into the scarf despite the comfortable warmth of the indoors.   
  
He's spent the entire day wandering through gaudy, Christmas-themed displays, the sun long set, a chill settling over the city. Jim stops by a window, looking down seventeen floors to where he can see the Academy campus spread out below. He realizes, grudgingly, that nothing he can buy that will match what McCoy has made. He has to think of something else.   
  
When he lifts his head, and looks to his left, he sees a print kiosk. He frowns at it, thoughtful, and then he smiles. The lone clerk raises his head as Jim approaches, and recites, "Good evening, sir, how can I help you?" in an excruciatingly bored tone of voice.  
  
"Can you print photographs?" asks Jim.   
  
He’s a  _genius_.  
  


oOo

  
  
"Jim," says McCoy, faltering in the doorway as he exits the bathroom.  
  
"Hey!" chirps Jim. He lifts a hand to wave, which is a mistake, because he loses his balance on the table and his legs go out from under him. There's a moment where he wavers, on the edge of the tiny little end table, his arms windmilling, and then he falls heavily into McCoy's arms. McCoy makes a noise that sounds a little like "oomph!" and his own knees buckle, the two of them tumbling to the floor in a heavy heap.   
  
"Wow," says Jim. He's lying on top of McCoy, sprawled out on his back.   
  
"Yeah," says McCoy, sourly. "Wow. Your elbow is in my stomach, Jim."  
  
"Sorry," cries Jim, jerking up as if he's been stung. "I'm sorry!"  
  
McCoy's response should be a grumble of relief, but instead he wheezes and doubles over, and Jim realizes he's just relocated his elbow directly into McCoy's groin. "Jim!" he whines again, flailing ineffectually.   
  
Jim executes a perfect somersault, rolling off, and McCoy instantly curls into a ball, which seems to give him only nominal relief.   
  
"Oops," says Jim, sheepishly, crouching near McCoy's head. He reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. "Sorry, Bones. Good reflexes, though, I thought I was going to wipe out."  
  
McCoy makes a cross noise in response.   
  
Jim watches him for a moment, then takes it upon himself to get the man vertical again. He shuffles over to crouch behind McCoy's head, grabbing him under the arms and pulling him to his feet. "C'mon, Bones," he encourages, half-dragging him to the couch. McCoy settles on it gingerly, his eyes now open and redefining what it means to glare daggers at someone.   
  
"Ow," says McCoy, pointedly, his hands cupped over his lap.   
  
"I said sorry!" protests Jim, running his fingers through his hair. McCoy is damp from the shower, his hair doing something kind of adorable as he stares at Jim sullenly from beneath his bangs. He's wearing a Starfleet Medical hooded sweatshirt and plaid pyjama pants, and his feet are bare.   
  
"You've got Christmas lights on you," replies McCoy, his expression crumpling into studied puzzlement. "And...tinsel. In your hair."  
  
"Yeah," agrees Jim, with a chuckle. He waves a hand at McCoy's living area, gesturing at the small artificial tree he has set up on the kitchen counter, and the mess of lights snaking over the ceiling and down around the two windows in the room. The tree is choked in tinsel, twinkling merrily by McCoy's coffee synthesizer. "Merry Christmas," adds Jim, a note of uncertainty sneaking into his tone.   
  
McCoy's expression is unfamiliar, wide-eyed and unguarded and caught by surprise. "Jim," he says, his voice wondering. "This is –"  
  
"I just thought you might want a tree," cuts in Jim, too antsy to wait for a potentially mercurial reaction. "And some lights. Since you were kind of bummed about hating Christmas. And I never celebrate, because it’s just – well, I don't really like Christmas either, Bones, but you seem to really want to try, so I was hoping this would be kind of cool. It is, right? These lights are blue, when you turn them on, and –"  
  
"– Fantastic," interjects McCoy.   
  
"What?" asks Jim, dumbly.   
  
"This is fantastic," repeats McCoy, slowly, as if Jim needs the help to follow along. He stands up, walking to the silvery tree, a ghost of a smile on his face.   
  
"Oh," says Jim, his face already bouncing back to unrivalled glee in a remarkably elastic way. "I hid that glorious atrocity of a sweater, too, and got you this," he continues, picking up a bag from the table and throwing it at McCoy’s face. McCoy catches it when it bounces off his forehead and into his arms, and he raises an eyebrow as he opens the bag.   
  
"That's not your present, by the way," says Jim quickly, as McCoy withdraws a sweater adorned with a pair of kittens gambolling across a carpet in front of a cozy fire. They're both wearing Santa hats. McCoy immediately starts to laugh.   
  
"This is better?" he demands. He strips off his hoodie and drops it on the floor, Jim watching shamelessly as the t-shirt he's wearing underneath rides up under his arms. McCoy bats at his hair, some strands standing on end from the static, and then he tugs the sweater on, giving Jim one of those goofy grins that make him look appealingly young.   
  
"Of course it is," says Jim firmly. "That one is from me."  
  


oOo

  
  
They're in the cafeteria, and McCoy has his eyes on his plate as he shoves green peppers out of his stir-fry, pushing them to the opposite side, when he says, "Jim, do you want to – um, I mean, are you doing anything on Christmas Eve? Going out?"  
  
Jim is perched on the edge of the bench, elbows planted as he leans forward to pick at the peppers with his own fork, occasionally snatching up some mushrooms while McCoy grumbles. "What?" he says, jabbing at a piece of meat. McCoy's weaves his fork in, trying to cut him off, but Jim catapults his earnings into his mouth. "Christmas Eve?"  
  
"Yeah," sighs McCoy. He sounds like he desperately wants to change the subject. He rapidly spears up the remaining bits of meat and shoves them all into his mouth, and then mumbles, "If you're busy, forget it."  
  
"Busy?" echoes Jim. He licks the sauce from his fork and levels a look at McCoy that translates to 'Honestly, I've got no fucking idea what you're on about, Bones.'  
  
McCoy lets out another thunderous sigh, and starts to push the remains of his rice around the plate in a desultory fashion. "Christmas Eve. Are you doing anything?" he says as precisely as he can, syllables clipped and sharp.   
  
"No, Doc-tor, I am not," counters Jim mechanically, in his best robot voice.   
  
"Okay," says McCoy, through gritted teeth.  
  
Jim waits, and waits another beat more, but McCoy is working his jaw like he's grinding his teeth, clearly disinclined to respond further. "Bones?"  
  
"I was thinking of getting take-out," says McCoy, eventually, as if he's worked out a script in his head that he can say without dying of embarrassment. "And I make a pretty mean glass of eggnog. We could – watch a vid, or something, and have a drink. If you want. Since you decorated my place, and all."  
  
Jim smiles, and keeps smiling, until McCoy reluctantly looks back at him and then scowls. "Dammit, Jim, what're you grinnin' at? Do I need to give you a written invitation? Yes or no?"  
  
"I like how you thought you had a choice about how you were going to spend Christmas Eve, Bones," he replies, winking at him.   
  
For some reason, McCoy flushes at that, and then turns away again. He tugs his plate of cherry pie forward and stabs at it, scooping a massive forkful into his mouth.   
  
Jim aims his fork at the crust, which is the bit he knows McCoy doesn't really like, and manages to ferret away half the slice before McCoy takes notice.   
  
He's really got to learn to pay attention.   
  


oOo

  
  
Jim isn’t entirely prepared for the spread McCoy has laid out, especially considering all he promised was take-out and spiked eggnog.   
  
After he first met McCoy, Jim actually made an effort to ring the chime on his door, and even went so far as waiting for McCoy to answer it before coming in. But after about four weeks of showing up at all hours – at first logical ones, like in the morning before class, or after dinner, and then increasingly more haphazard times, like in the middle of the night – and always finding that he was, beneath McCoy’s gruff mock-annoyance, welcomed without question, then he just started letting himself in without announcing his presence.   
  
McCoy never protested when Jim set up keycard access for himself; instead, he merely grunted, raised an eyebrow, and said at least now he wouldn’t have to bother making sure he was wearing pants before answering the door.   
  
So, it’s not like Jim had let McCoy know when he’d be coming, and Bones isn’t actually here.   
  
A whole fucking  _smorgasbord_  of food is, though, and Jim restrains himself from immediately cramming as much of it as possible into his mouth like he’s never eaten before in his life. He tries a few bites of things here and there, the stuff that McCoy won’t miss, like a mouthful of mashed sweet potato that Jim smoothes over again with a spoon, a small square of gingerbread, and a baby carrot covered in what tastes like angel’s tears and is likely brown sugar and maple syrup.   
  
“Damn,” he says to himself, staring around the table. It’s impossible for McCoy to have made all this himself, especially in the tiny, pathetic excuse of a kitchenette with which the dorm comes provided, but he doubts he got food this good from a synthesizer, either.   
  
It stands to reason that Jim has his finger in the banana pudding when McCoy returns.  
  
“Jim!” barks McCoy, a large paper bag of what Jim hopes is booze in his arms. He enters accompanied by that clinging radial chill that follows warm bodies in from the cold, and there are thick, wet, rapidly-melting flakes stuck to his coat and (ridiculous) hat. “Get your fingers out of that. Have you even washed your hands yet?”  
  
Jim startles, a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and a slow, scalding blush spreads over the back of his neck.   
  
“Sorry! Sorry, Bones,” he says sheepishly, coming forward to take the bag. It clinks appealingly, and with what he’s brought as well, they might be looking at spending the rest of their break completely toasted.  
  
McCoy scowls, stripping off his hat and coat and mittens, hanging everything up to dry on a chair. He looks half-drowned, his hair stuck to his forehead and the back of his neck.  
  
“It’s snowing again?” asks Jim, surprised, as he sets the bag down and removes a bottle of bourbon, six bottles of Jim’s favourite beer, dark rum, and a massive bottle of Grand Marnier.   
  
“Sort of,” replies McCoy, making a face as he drags his fingers through his hair. “It’s very wet. It’s not sticking to the ground at all. What’ve you got there?” He points to Jim’s backpack, which has been forced to zip shut over what appears to be a small child or a medium-sized dog.  
  
“Things,” says Jim, putting the beer in the fridge and sneaking another mouthful of sweet potatoes. “Festive things, like presents and more liquor. And I can’t cook, so I brought, like, a metric ton of really good chocolate.”  
  
McCoy nods in satisfaction and bustles into the kitchenette. “Well, everything’s warm now, so are we eating, or what? Get a plate, Jim.”  
  
Now that he’s removed his coat, Jim can see that McCoy is wearing the horrific sweater Jim bought for him. He smothers a laugh, and obediently fetches a plate.  
  


oOo

  
  
“Oh God,” says Jim. His arm feels like it’s been packed with cement as he reaches out for another sliver of country ham, forcibly shoving it into his mouth.  
  
“Shut up,” mumbles McCoy. He’s sitting on the couch, head tilted back, arm over his eyes, as if it’s his eyes making him feel like this. “Your voice is making it worse.”  
  
“It’s your food,” accuses Jim. He goes for another spoonful of green bean casserole and stifles a groan. “Your  _devil food_. I have never actually been this full. I’m pretty sure we’re both dead, and in food purgatory, Bones.”  
  
“A good way to go,” moans McCoy. “Did we die before or after the seven consecutive courses of dessert?” He lifts his head, frowning in concentration as he reaches for his mug of hot chocolate and the Grand Marnier. He empties a shot into the mug and then lifts it to his lips with considerable effort. His body is pressed alongside Jim’s, warm and sturdy, even though there’s room for another person to sit to his left on the couch, and he’s currently wearing a string of lights as a makeshift crown.  
  
“During. I wish we had a fireplace,” says Jim. He looks around the room, at the desiccated remains of their Christmas dinner, and the small, lopsided, twinkling tree. Most of the lights he put up are slowly starting to peel off, dangling from the ceiling like ominous tendrils of glowing plantlife. “But all in all, I’d say this is pretty festive. Hey, um, I’ve got a present for you, Bones.”  
  
“Jim,” protests McCoy, already half-way to exasperated in two seconds flat. “I didn’t give you the scarf so you’d get me a present in return. I don’t have – I mean, I gave it to you early because I didn’t think we’d wind up celebrating together. And you said you didn’t have any winter stuff with you.”  
  
“Bones, it’s cool,” says Jim cheerfully, digging for the gift in his bag and pulling it out carefully. “I love the scarf. Like, a lot. I just wanted to get you something, too. It’s not much. I was actually gonna get you bourbon, and now I’m glad I didn’t.”   
  
“You might as well have just gotten me alcohol poisoning,” agrees McCoy, amused. He sits up, knee touching Jim’s, and accepts the neatly wrapped gift. “You’re a lot better at this than me,” he adds, peeling the paper away.   
  
Jim is suddenly hit with a wave of restless anxiety, and he gets up quickly to get another drink so that he doesn’t have to look at McCoy’s face as he opens the present.  
  
With his back to the living room, and his head in the fridge, all he hears is the crackle of paper and then a long pause. Jim realizes, stupidly, that he’s holding his breath, but that’s when the low, reverential chuckle reaches his ears.  
  
When Jim gathers the courage to return to the couch, he finds McCoy smiling softly down at the framed picture in his hands, a real, honest-to-goodness, printed photo behind the glass. It’s a shot that someone took of them early in the year, sitting beside each other in the mess hall. Jim has both elbows on the table, as always, his hands clasped, and he’s looking to McCoy at his right, a wide, obnoxious grin spread over his face. McCoy is in the middle of talking, one hand waving in the air, the other on Jim’s shoulder, and he’s half-smiling, one eyebrow doing the slow climb to lofty new heights.   
  
“Pretty stupid, right?” Jim starts, before McCoy even raises his head. “But I thought it was funny. You were talking about –”  
  
“That pathetic excuse for pecan pie they were serving,” interjects McCoy, with a laugh. “Jim, this is great. Thank you. I don’t have any photos anymore. This’ll be a good start to a new collection of ‘em.” He stands, picking up his half-congealed mug of hot chocolate, and then clinks it gently against the beer Jim has forgotten he’s holding. “Cheers, kid. And thanks.”  
  
The tension melts immediately out of Jim’s shoulders and he smiles brightly. Then, without much thought, he puts a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, leans in, and kisses him directly on the lips. McCoy has the faint taste of chocolate and orange, and Jim doesn’t close his eyes, so he sees the way McCoy’s widen.   
  
“It’s midnight, Bones,” says Jim quickly, clearing his throat as he pulls back. The beer is cold in his hands, and it squeaks under his fingers as he adjusts his damp grip. “Merry Christmas.”  
  
McCoy blinks at him, then glances up, before meeting Jim’s eyes again, a sheepish, shy little smile on his face.  
  
“I was just checking for mistletoe,” he teases, shrugging.   
  
Jim laughs, and pulls him close, gently, since they’re both still holding open containers of liquid, and says, “That wasn’t a horrified ‘no,’ or a ‘dammit, Jim!’, or even enraged confusion.”  
  
McCoy shakes his head, still smiling, and takes the beer from his hand and sets their drinks aside.   
  
“Merry Christmas, Jim,” he murmurs, and kisses him again, spicy and hot and sweet.


End file.
